


Life Patterns

by Joana789



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bipolar Disorder, Domestic Boyfriends, Established Relationship, Even's POV, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, but nothing heavy, constructed according to the time, i wanted to be on the safe side, rated m because of some blink and you miss it porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11988267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: 14:05Even would write novels about him if he were a writer, or compose songs about him if he were a musician. But he’s neither, so he doesn’t. He draws Isak a heart, instead, like he’s done times and times before, traces it into the skin of Isak’s bare shoulder with his fingertips.He doesn’t know when he’s supposed to stop feeling like this.





	Life Patterns

**Author's Note:**

> I still have so many feelings when it comes to these boys, I wrote this fic within 2 days, and I refuse to let the SKAM fandom die.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

 

_7:45_

Even wakes up to Isak every day, now. They’ve been living together for months, and he still can’t quite get used to it.

Some mornings, like today, he wonders if he ever will.

Isak sleeps like he lives — steady, now, and solid, and relaxed. He has a favorite pillow, and he curls into Even under the covers because it’s just a thing he does. Just a thing his body does, involuntarily, as if some part of him was still afraid Even will leave at dawn, vanish like the darkness vanishes. Even supposes it’s only fair, in a way, but still wishes it wasn’t.

He’s not going anywhere, this time and all the other times to come.

He likes to watch him, in the mornings. Likes to watch the sun as it comes in through the window, as the light paints patterns on the floor, on the bedsheets, weaves into Isak’s hair. Isak’s breathing is steady, even. Peaceful. Everything is the color it usually is, not duller, not brighter.

Today is an _in-the-middle_ kind of day.

That’s good.

  
*

  
_8:02_

Even lingers, this morning. It’s early, and he doesn’t really have anywhere to be or anything particular to do, so he stays in bed. Presses one kiss to Isak’s temple, a greeting of sorts, then another and another, to his cheek, to his jaw, to his hair. Isak smiles just a tiny little bit, a barely-there curve of his lips, but doesn’t wake up.

Even wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, now.

He used to. Escaping was easy, and it was a habit — slipping away, away from Sonja, from Elias and Mikael and the boys, from his parents sometimes, too, although briefly. From Isak. Even used that distance as a shield, as a protection tool, something to make himself feel safer. Or something to make others feel safer, maybe.

 _Escape artist_ , he used to say to himself, ages and ages ago. Even liked this term, found it suiting, back then, used to think it would make a nice title for a movie, maybe. Not a movie about him, necessarily, but about someone in general. A certain kind of person.

As if leaving people behind was an art of some sort and not something much smaller, much worse. As if it was greater than just another act of cowardice on his part.

Even owes people things. That’s how he sees it. He owes emotions, and feelings, and experiences. The time he stole to never give it back. It’s like a debt he has to pay eventually, one way or another, and he’s aware it’s not fair to think this way — _you don’t owe me anything_ , Isak would tell him if he knew, a frown on his face, tension in his shoulders — but still. That’s something he needs to work out on his own, this mindset.

Even presses Isak closer, adjusts himself to the lines of his body, fits in, because that’s just what they do, he and Isak — they _fit_.

And yeah — Even’s working it out. He’ll work it out, eventually.

  
*

  
_9:00_

The sound of his alarm clock tears through the silence, and Even slips out of bed before he knows it, untangles Isak’s arms from around himself, mutters a _"Sorry"_ when Isak groans quietly.

 _Meds_ , the reminder on his phone tells him. Even flicks it off the screen.

His pills are in their bathroom cabinet and Even thinks that it’s a little ironic, sometimes — he switches the light on and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he swallows the pills down, then looks at himself again, after, out of habit more than anything else. Like something was supposed to change at all, during those four or five seconds, about the way he looks, about the way he is.

But his eyes are still blue, and his hair is still a mess in the mornings, and his brain is still wired wrong. Not much ever changes. This is not what Even Bech Næsheim comes down to, not entirely, he knows that now, but it’s there. And he used to feel sorry for himself, used to be afraid of thinking about it all, about the meds and therapy sessions and the way other people might see him, but not anymore.

This is nobody’s fault, not even his own. Nothing to feel sorry for, either.

He screws the lid on the meds shut, puts the little bottle away.

A couple of pills a day is all it takes, people used to tell him — the doctors, his parents, others. Things get better. It’s all about consistency. Never float away too far, never stay on one end for too long. Take your meds. Track your moods. Stick to your habits. Don’t let yourself feel too much. Be rational, and try to be stable. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Even flicks the light off and goes.

  
*

  
_10:34_

He styles his hair carefully, puts on clothes — only two layers, a t-shirt and a hoodie, because there’s nothing he needs to shield himself from today, because today he feels fine — and brushes his teeth, goes to the kitchen to make breakfast.

Britney Spears is on the radio. Even turns the volume up.

He’s almost done with the pancakes when he hears Isak shuffling into the room. It’s a thing — Isak usually arrives when the food is done. Even doesn’t mind, really, and Isak doesn’t do it deliberately, anyway, he doesn’t think. He’s just talented like that.

Even smiles.

”Good morning, handsome,” he says, turning around from the stove. Isak plops down onto one of the chairs, heavily. Like the day managed to tire him out already.

”Hi,” he mutters. Even’s smile widens.

”How are you?” he asks, swaying to the tunes of some next song now, whatever comes on the radio. Isak looks like a mess, honestly, with his clothes crumpled and his hair still wet from the shower, muffling yawns every other second. A standard condition on weekends before noon, really, but Even still loves that he knows it; that he’s seen Isak like this so many times already.

That means something.

”Sleepy,” Isak answers, yawning again. ”Tired.”

”Poor you,” Even grins at him.

Isak rolls his eyes half-heartedly. ”Shut up.”

Even laughs at him just a little and then turns back to the stove. ”Breakfast’s almost done.”

Isak hums in reply, quietly, and that’s that.

So Even gets back to work, humming under his breath and swaying in place and letting the songs pass, one by one. He makes coffee, and finishes the job with the pancakes, and turns back to Isak quickly to wink at him, maybe, or send him a smile, but when he does, it’s only to discover that Isak is looking right at him already. First.

There is something in his eyes Even tries to put a name to.

”What are you looking at?” he asks, stepping closer to Isak, peering down. The words come out soft, unexpectedly.

Isak looks up in turn, because they just work like that, the two of them. He says, softly, ”You,” and then, with a smirk slowly spreading on his lips, he adds, ”I’m watching your shitty dance moves.”

” _My_ shitty dance moves?” Even gasps, mock-shocked, looks around the room as if Isak could be referring to somebody else who might be in there — as if anyone else could be in there with them at all — but Isak only nods, grinning. And yeah, the look in his eyes remains, unreadable still. Even likes to think that he knows Isak like nobody else does, but maybe that’s not quite true. Maybe it’s not really possible at all, to know a person thoroughly, completely, as much as it gets. Maybe there’s always something more to discover.

That would be an exciting thing.

”They’re pretty awful,” Isak tells him, and Even wants to keep the banter going, keep playing the game, the answer already there in his mind, but then Isak grabs the front of his t-shirt and pulls him down, and the conversation is done, for now.

  
*

  
_10:48_

Even kisses Isak for the first time today, smiling into it.

He thinks it’s high time.

  
*

  
_12:14_

Even doesn't drink and he doesn't smoke. Not often, anyway, for obvious reasons. He used to, because the parties at Bakka were filled with this — with alcohol and joints and heady atmosphere that got into his mind and then stayed there, dull, clouding. And Even liked that. It was his way of spacing out, of catching a bit of a distance.

A nice, steady ground when his mind never stopped racing, never stopped backtracking, with a switch that was always on.

But today the buzzing under his skin is not as prominent as it could be, and the heaviness in his bones is barely there as well, and he doesn’t need to drink or to smoke, anyway.

He feels like he could get high on just this.

On Isak pressed up against him, his hands under Even’s t-shirt, on listening to his breath catch in his throat when Even deepens the kiss, tilts his head just right. They were supposed to clean after breakfast, but then Isak hopped onto the counter instead of helping to wash the dishes, looking at Even and biting his lip, and it went downhill from there.

Even doesn’t know when he’s supposed to stop feeling like this.

Like the world could end and he wouldn't notice. Like he's losing his breath every time. Isak rocks into him a little and his thighs tremble, pressed against Even’s hips, and Even can’t help but pull on Isak’s hair just a bit, can’t help but try and tease a groan out of him.

This is getting heated.

”Even,” Isak mutters against his lips, breaking the kiss, and Even just chases his lips in response, licking into his mouth again. Isak shivers slightly, moves one hand from under Even’s shirt up his chest, cups the back of his neck. The touch burns, and when they part again, Isak sounds out of breath. ”Even, bedroom.”

This is a very good idea, Even thinks as he kisses the corner of Isak’s mouth, then the curve of his jaw, then his neck, hums in agreement against his skin. A wonderful idea.

”We still need to do the dishes,” he mutters half-heartedly. Isak presses his palm firmer against Even’s stomach, then moves it lower.

”Fuck the dishes,” he says. His words are a breathless sound.

”Yeah, right,” Even tells him, and he thinks he would smile if he weren't occupied otherwise right now. He sucks and licks on Isak’s skin until a hickey blooms right under his jaw and Isak starts squirming under Even’s touch.

”Come on, come on,” he says, pulls at Even’s t-shirt again, and when Even peers at him, Isak looks dazed, with dark eyes and flushed cheeks and suddenly it’s too hot in the room, and they’re kissing again, intently.

They could do it all right here and Even wouldn’t mind at all.

”But we need to clean the kitchen, baby,” he says again, just for the sake of teasing, or just to work Isak up, his hands gripping Isak’s waist tightly, because _fuck_ , he’s so in love with this boy.

”Stop trying to cockblock me with cleaning,” Isak tells him, pulling at Even’s hair now, and Even can feel Isak’s smile against his lips.

He says, ”When have I ever tried to cockblock you?” and it makes Isak laugh a little, and then he hops off the counter when Even steps back, and as they stumble into the bedroom together, giggling, Isak presses him against the door to close it and Even lets him.

He would let him do anything, everything.

 

*

  
( _12:42_

Then, there’s this: Isak’s arms around his shoulders, Isak’s lips on his own, Isak’s fingernails biting into his skin and the quiet noises he makes in the back of his throat, Isak’s breathless _please, please Even_ , because maybe Even isn’t in the right spot yet, not quite; Isak arching off the bed, Isak pulling Even closer, as close as it gets.

There’s something about all this that makes Even feel utterly free.

Isak used to be scared of it; Even knows, because he used to be scared of it, too. Of intimacy, of showing yourself to the other person, of looking at them and knowing that they’ve seen it all, everything there is to see. It was terrifying.

And he can feel Isak’s ragged breathing against his cheek and his own rapid pulse in his temples and it’s so dizzying, all the sensations, and so new, and so familiar.

Isak kisses him like he wants to tell him something, and Even kisses him back.)

  
*

  
_14:05_

Even would write novels about him if he were a writer, or compose songs about him if he were a musician. But he’s neither, so he doesn’t. He draws Isak a heart, instead, like he’s done times and times before, traces it into the skin of his bare shoulder with his fingertips, because sometimes light touches are more significant than heavy ones. That’s all there is.

There’s something about the way Isak shivers under Even’s hands.

  
*

  
_14:36_

It takes them a while to get out of bed again, and then it takes them another while to take a shower and get dressed and when Isak tries to style his hair, Even messes it up for him with one swift movement and then peppers Isak’s face with little kisses until his frown goes away.

”I hate you,” Isak tells him, and Even snorts.

”That’s not what you were saying an hour ago,” he mutters, raising how eyebrows suggestively, and it’s enough to make Isak blush, muttering  _”Jesus fuck”_ under his breath, and Even cackles, delighted.

When he steals a glance at him in the mirror, Isak is smiling, too.

  
*

  
_15:15_

They go grocery shopping, and Isak’s grocery list only contains cereal, ice cream and a six pack of beer. Even looks at him in mock-pity when he sees that, says, ”I can’t believe there was a time when you managed to survive on your own at all.”

Isak shrugs under the bright lights of the supermarket and then smiles, says, ”Good thing I have you, now,” and Even sighs, shakes his head, but still takes Isak’s hand in his.

”I knew you only liked me because I’m good at cooking,” he tells him. Isak nods.

”And at one more thing,” he says, almost like it’s a secret of some sort, and when Even asks, ”What thing?” Isak, amused, only kisses his cheek in response — once, twice.

That attracts attention, Even guesses.

Because then one of the cashiers eyes them, looking almost offended, and a young guy mutters something under his breath when he passes them in the aisle, and a group of girls starts shooting them weird glances until one of them points at Isak when she thinks Even can’t see.

Even can see, though. He sees it all.

And he’s tired, suddenly. It comes like a wave, envelops him for just a second — this fatigue. He’s tired of being compared, and of comparing himself, as if he’s supposed to fit into a pattern of some kind, or a formula. He’s tired of looking for things that are wrong about him, that are wrong about _them_.

There’s nothing wrong with what he feels, with who he is. Not like this.

People will be people, and he gets that. But sometimes he just wishes the world could be a little different, that’s all.

Isak is busy choosing what kind of instant noodles he wants to buy, and then he turns around and looks at Even for a second too long before asking, ”Everything ok?”

”Yeah,” Even tells him, takes his hand again, because fuck what others think. That’s what it all comes down to, ultimately. ”Let’s go.”

  
*

  
_15:41_

Then, when they’re paying for all the stuff, the cashier looks at Even’s arm wrapped around Isak’s waist and then smiles at him brightly, much brighter than before, and Even remembers, with a little smile of his own — there are those people in the world, too.

  
*

  
_16:09_

Isak says, ”Okay, fine,” when they finish unpacking the groceries, and for a second, Even wants to ask what’s going on, but then Isak rolls up his sleeves and sighs heavily. ”You made me breakfast, so I guess I’ll clean.”

Even grins, jokingly says, ”You’re a cool guy, Isak.”

Isak barks out a laugh, the sound bubbling out of him. All of his laughs are like this — always a surprise, like he never sees them coming until they’re suddenly there, loud and beautiful. It’s a thing from his past, maybe, Even guesses. When he didn’t have much to laugh about in the first place. It’s something that’s left.

”Thanks,” Isak tells him, and then his expression turns sheepish. ”I’m only this cool around you.”

  
*

  
_17:32_

Even’s sketchbook is a chaotic thing, just like his mind. Green, because he just felt like it the day he bought it, and there was nothing more to it, still isn’t. It’s a mess to whoever looks at it, at Even’s sketches and little comics, dreams he wanted to keep close for just a bit longer, thoughts he didn’t know how to phrase properly, feelings he needed a catalyst for.

Pieces of Even’s unruly mind, pressed in-between the pages.

”Is that me?” Isak asks him later in the day, comes closer, peers over Even’s shoulder while Even sketches, pointing at a corner of the page, a tiny drawing of his own face smushed into a pillow that Even drew as soon as he woke up, three days ago. It’s right next to the picture of their neighbor’s cat.

Even lets him look because he’s seen it all already anyway. There’s nothing to hide, not anymore, not when Isak looks at his drawings with wide eyes and curiosity in his expression, and something like wonder, and something more, too, something else.

Whatever Even’s mind is, Isak has seen it.

”Yeah, it's you,” Even confirms, watches Isak lean in closer to examine the sketch. The words come out quiet. ”That's you.”

  
*

  
_18:48_

Magnus has a leaf in his hair when he comes in through the door, Jonas and Mahdi right behind him, but his eyes are bright with excitement and he wraps Even in a hug before anyone can say as much as _”Hi”_.

”I missed you,” Magnus tells him even though they haven’t seen each other for maybe a week, at most. Even laughs quietly.

”I missed you, too, bro,” he says. It’s enough to make Magnus grin.

It’s supposed to be a pregame, technically, and the boys brought beer and weed, but Isak keeps looking at Even when the others aren’t paying attention, and Even knows what he means. He doesn’t really feel up to going to a party, either. There’s too much happening in his mind today, or maybe there’s not enough happening, really, he’s not sure.

He wonders, for a second, if it would all be the same if he weren’t bipolar.

If Magnus would like him just as much, and Jonas, and Mahdi. If he would see the world as colorful as he sees it now. If he’d draw as often as he does, and if he would feel the need to draw at all. If some things would be easier. If some others would be harder. If he’d feel things equally intensely, to the point when the emotions almost threaten to crack his chest open.

It’s not like there is some kind of choice for him. But he thinks about it, still.

  
*

  
_19:51_

They tell the boys they’re not going to the party, and Magnus boos at them, and Jonas calls them _old people_.

”Shut up,” Isak says, rolling his eyes, and Even just winks at them, says, ”Have fun without us.”

  
*

  
_20:33_

Even talks Isak into watching ”Moulin Rouge” again, when the boys are gone and the front door is locked. They settle on the bed, pressed together closely under a blanket, and Even mutters little comments into Isak’s hair throughout the whole movie.

He tells him about the colours and the meaning of his favourite scenes and about the shots, and composition, and he thinks he could stay like this as long as the world would let him, when the only sounds in the room are the rustling of the sheets and Isak’s breathing and the movie playing and Even’s own heartbeat.

He takes Isak’s hand, tangles their fingers together, presses a kiss to his temple.

Outside, the world carries on.

  
*

  
_22:50_

And here goes the truth — Even is worried about the future. He likes days like today because they are easy, like they belong to some other space, some other universe, but the thing is — the world doesn’t ever wait for him, even when he’s okay and even when he isn’t, not quite.

He’s worried about the choices he makes, and the opportunities he might miss, people he might disappoint or hurt if he’s not careful enough, not cautious enough.

It’s easier to say those things in the dark, when they’re both sitting on the bed in their pajamas, getting ready to sleep. Insomnia used to be a thing they shared, but not anymore, not always.

Isak squeezes Even’s hand in his, blinking up at him. He’s always softer in the evenings like this. Another facade slipping.

”Don’t worry,” he says. ”I got you.”

And yeah — he does.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://sanasbakkcush.tumblr.com)


End file.
